've had a lot of trouble during the last two years. But I suppose I
oughtn't to pester you with the details of my personal affairs."

"Anything that bears on your present state of health is of interest to
me if you don't mind telling it," I said.

"Mind!" he exclaimed. "Did you ever meet an invalid who didn't enjoy
talking about his own health? It's the listener who minds, as a rule."

"Well, the present listener doesn't," I said.

"Then," said Mr. Bellingham, "I'll treat myself to the luxury of telling
you all my troubles; I don't often get the chance of a confidential
grumble to a responsible man of my own class. And I really have some
excuse for railing at Fortune, as you will agree when I tell you that, a
couple of years ago, I went to bed one night a gentleman of independent
means and excellent prospects and woke up in the morning to find myself
practically a beggar. Not a cheerful experience that, you know, at my
time of life, eh?"

"No," I agreed, "nor at any other."

"And that was not all," he continued; "for, at the same moment, I lost
my only brother, my dearest, kindest friend. He disappeared--vanished
off the face of the earth; but perhaps you have heard of the affair. The
confounded papers were full of it at the time."

He paused abruptly, noticing, no doubt, a sudden change in my face. Of
course, I recollected the case now. Indeed, ever since I had entered the
house some chord of memory had been faintly vibrating, and now his last
words had struck out the full note.

"Yes," I said, "I remember the incident, though I don't suppose I should
but for the fact that our lecturer on medical jurisprudence drew my
attention to it."

"Indeed," said Mr. Bellingham, rather uneasily, as I fancied. "What did
he say about it?"

"He referred to it as a case that was calculated to give rise to some
very pretty legal complications."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Bellingham, "that man was a prophet! Legal
complications, indeed! But I'll be bound he never guessed at the sort of
infernal tangle that has actually gathered round the affair. By the way,
what was his name?"

"Thorndyke," I replied. "Doctor John Thorndyke."

"Thorndyke," Mr. Bellingham repeated in a musing, retrospective tone. "I
seem to remember that name. Yes, of course. I have heard a legal friend
of mine, a Mr. Marchmont, speak of him in reference to the case of a man
whom I knew slightly years ago--a certain Jeffrey Blackmore, who also
disappeared